


Record Year

by somethingclever



Category: Justified
Genre: Fluff, Found Families, Gen, M/M, Other, The Ava/Boyd/Raylan is super super background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9302585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: Art is proud of his office's numbers, but hears a few things at the bi-annual Chief Deputy conference that he finds... disquieting.This leads to actions being taken that Tim finds... disquieting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This storybite is from a larger work/headcanon in which, post Bulletville, Boyd, instead of being a window licking idiot, calls Raylan for help. He gets immunity for turning on Bo, etc., etc., and he, and Ava, and Raylan are happy together. This leads to a much quieter, more effective Marshals office. That's really all the background you need to understand this AU, and you could probably even get by without it, but I wanted to explain why things might seem odd. This fic takes place sometime in what would be season 4. 
> 
> As always, please leave me a comment, even if it's just that you read and enjoyed! (or not. You can tell me if you didn't like it, too.)

It had been a record year.  Art sat back at the table, watching as Lexington’s numbers scrolled over the screen, smiling to himself.  They’d made more arrests than anybody else in the Southeastern district, with better closure rates.  Rachel, Raylan, and Tim had worked their asses off to get it for him.

He’d’ve never predicted that bringing Raylan on (a favor to a friend, four years ago, now) would end up so well. They’d both expected it to be temporary.

He’d expected it to be the worst pain in his ass.

Instead, Raylan had settled in like he belonged, after an initial traces-kicking (which seemed obligatory), and now, there they were, a well-oiled machine, a triumphant triad. 

He was proud of them.

The numbers-crunching and painful pep talk and even more agonizing seminar (understanding fugitives: where should we be looking?) over, Art settled down at his assigned seat for a fair-to-middling meal, waving across at some other CD’s he knew.  While he didn’t like the biannual conference, per se, it gave him a chance to get out of the office and take Leslie somewhere nice on the Federal Dollar… and gave him something to do while she enjoyed wherever it was they were!

Raylan had gotten the long straw to come with him, this time, Rachel pummeling his shoulder with her fists, hollering, ‘But you don’t even wanna see that conference!’

‘Yeah, but I like Miami!’ while Tim grinned, watching them.  _He_ had no wishes to go down to the land of the ‘kini and plantains.  Raylan had brought Ava along, and she and Leslie were having a time of it.  Raylan was starting to look twitchy towards the end of the third day, though, and Art basked in his senior deputies’ annoyance.  It was the little things!

“Art!” Bill Serber said, CD of Cincinnati, “You ol’ dog, how’re you doing?”

“Bill, good to see ya,” Art stood to shake his hand, “We’re doing pretty well, out my way…” and he told him about the latest exciting case, Rachel’s cunning pointing Raylan’s ruthlessness stirring the rats into Tim’s sights.  By the end of the story, he had a little bit of an audience, and he grinned, well-pleased with them.

“How long’s that boy been a Marshal, now?”

“Raylan? Longer’n you have!”

“No, no, not him.  Th’other one. Gutterson?”

“Tim’s been a Marshal going on four years.”

“Damn, Art!  Why’re you hogging him?” Serber laughed, slapping his shoulder, “Let somebody else get a chance with him.  He’s wasted on Kentucky!”

….and that just got his ire up, flaring like a gouty toe! “Excuse me?”

“Oh, nothing against *you*, Art, you’ve done a great job, always have, and so’s Deputy Brooks, but a kid like that… he’d be somethin’ else, in a bigger district.  Let him have a little more room to grow.”

“He’d probably make Chief, somewhere else.”

“Lor’ knows,” Mike Ericson, from Dallas, spoke up, “I’d be more than happy to have my own private strike team.”

Art shot back something sassy, and the topic moved on, but it lingered in his mind like burnt garlic on the tongue.

They were likely right. Rachel was, everyone knew, his heir apparent, and he couldn’t think of a better person to hand it off to. Raylan was happy to spend out the rest of his service in the role he had.  In fact, happier than he’d ever be as a CD, even with Ava and Boyd evening out that lopsided keel he called an emotional life.  Nelson was capped out, bless his sweet heart.  But… where did that leave Tim?

 Dead ended. Running around Kentucky for piss-ants.

He rubbed his face with both hands, tired, some of the joy of having the best numbers diminished at the thought that he was holding Tim back.  Tim hadn’t put in for a transfer, but then, he hadn’t _asked_.

Well. He’d have to fix that.  He thought about it on the flight home, bitterly lamenting the loss of the peanut snack. 

Mentioning it offhandedly got him nowhere.

“Tim, where’s your dream place to work?” Art asked casually, leaning a hip on Tim’s desk, cradling his coffee mug.  Tim blinked at him before taking a sip of his coffee himself and replying,

“My couch.”

Trying to get it out of Raylan was even less helpful.

“D’you reckon Tim’s happy here?” over bourbon, and Raylan’s eyes tore themselves from the big screen hanging above the bar, UK beating the pants off of… hell yes, Louisville!

“…we didn’t bring him along, Art!” like Art was getting senile and stupid. 

Rachel’s reply was at least straight-forward and useful.  Rachel had shrugged, “Never said anything to me.”

That was three leads, dead-ended.  Damn.

Considering where Tim would be best placed was harder than Art had expected, as he sat down with the database of offices that had openings.  He ruled out any too far North – Tim didn’t much care for cold, he didn’t think, judging by his surreptitious use of a space heater in the winter. And he ruled out Florida, mainly because Miami office was Raylan’s, and he didn’t think he wanted to move Tim into that particular shadow. Nothing too small… there went Nebraska… and nothing too big… there went New York City and DC.

Dallas. He looked up their numbers – they were good – and their shootings – not bad – injuries on the job, mm, but then again, they dealt with the border… and he liked Mike.  Mike was decent.  He’d treat Tim fairly. 

Wouldn’t coddle him any, but maybe Art was too coddling. 

He sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face.  Who was he kidding?  He doted on that boy. He worked him like a horse, but Tim seemed to thrive on that, always came through for him, soaking up any stray bit of positive attention Art threw him.  There’d been unsteady times – top of his mind was Tim’s face,  furious and half-ashamed, telling him they were gonna get _blown to shit_ … and killing that MP not even two days later– and some real good times.  He smiled at the memory of barbeques with his team, easy and relaxed, throwing ball with Tim and Raylan (and sometimes Boyd) and watching as Tim taught his girls better than _he_ could, even, how to teach a man that no? meant _no._

There were all the times Tim showed up when he needed him, pitched in after Art was shot, without being asked.  Tim had mowed his goddamn lawn that entire summer!

…yeah.  Yeah, it was time to let the kid go to someone else.  He couldn’t do this to him.

He deserved better.

He got to work on the paperwork, signed it, and put it in an envelope and set it on Tim’s desk before leaving for the day on Friday.  Tim would get it first thing Monday, and they’d be able to put it through by mid-morning. By Friday, he’d have an answer, and Art could tell Leslie to start planning the going-away party. 

He didn’t want to tell Leslie that.

He headed home, settling into his couch for a nice evening, watching the Sports Center, Leslie puttering around in her scrapbooking on the kitchen table, girls upstairs doing god knew what teenagers did on their laptops and Ipads and such antisocial devices on social media. 

The doorbell rang, and Art frowned, getting up to go get it. He glanced out the window – Tim’s truck was in the drive, pulled in at an angle, engine still on.

Probably grabbing the girls to go see some fantasy movie…

He went to the door, opening it, and faced down a Tim Gutterson he’d never seen before.  Instinct had him step onto the porch, drawing the door closed behind him.

His face was white. Chalk-white, eyes blazing, and he shoved the packet of papers – the transfer papers – into Art’s chest. Hard. “You can take that,” Tim spat at him, “And _shove it._ You want to get rid of me?  Ship me off to Texas reform school?  Just say so. Say it to my goddamn face, Art, I think I’ve earned that-that much. Haven’t I?”

  
“What the hell are you talking about?” 

  
“This!” The calm, easy-going sniper’s front shattered, showing an angry, wild creature, reminding Art of nothing so much as a hawk, caught in wires. He smacked his hand against the folder again, snatching it back, flipping from page to page recklessly.  Pages dropped unheeded and his hands closed, crumpling the crisp edges.  “This, Art, I’m talking about this-this-this  ** _thing_**  you fuckin’ signed, sendin’ me away, givin’ me off to… who the hell even is this guy?  I ain’t ever met him!  How’d I know I can trust… I done  _everything_  you ever asked.  I done it as good as I knew how, Art, jus' gimme another chance,  _please,_  I don't..." he'd been nearly-screaming, his voice hoarse, tears on his face showing in the light of the porch lanterns Tim had helped Leslie string up. "Please," he said, his breath catching, "I dunno what I did wrong, Art?" 

Hell with it.

Hell with coddling too fucking much.

Just… hell.

“C’mere, son, shh,” Art reached for him and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him in. Tim fought it, but Art kept it up, and he went with the pull, burying his face in Art’s neck, wet and shivering. “Tim, easy, easy.  You done nothin’ wrong. I promise.  If I transferred people for messin’ up, don’t you think Raylan’d be in Juneau, by now?”

The worn joke of Raylan-the-scapegrace seemed to relax Tim a little, and Art kept petting down his back, “Then why…? I don’ understand, Art!”  It was easy to forget, sometimes, how young – and alone – this young man was.

Front porch wasn’t the place for this talk.  “You okay to come inside?” Might prefer not, given that he was crying.

“Not like Leslie ain’t seen me upset before.”

“…when was this?” Art asked, horrified at that possibility, that he’d missed something happening to Tim, hadn’t _been there_ …

“You were shot, Art. She cried on me, I cried on her, the girls cried on both of us.”

That was new information, and Art pulled him in with an arm around his neck, a quick kiss on his temple, because what else could you do, when you knew somebody had been there for your wife and kids? “Okay, get inside, then,” he said, “Wanna beer?”

“No,” Tim said, over his shoulder, “Probably best not. Drove here.”

“Is that Tim?” Leslie came out of the kitchen, “Oh… oh, honey. What happened?”

“Workin’ on that, Leslie,” Art said, and she glanced at him, saw the envelope he had taken back, holding it against his chest – frozen there – and back at Tim’s face.

“Okay. I’ll go make you some coffee.”

Tim nodded, following Art down into the den, curling himself up on a corner cushion of the sofa. Art sat down, heavily, and set the folder between them.  Tim glared at it, and then raised his eyes to Art’s face again, mutiny writ large on his features.

Art threw away any notion he had of leading off with business.

“I _don’t_ want you to go,” he said, “Let’s just get that straight.  You’re a damn good marshal.  That’s the whole point, Tim. You’re a damn good marshal.  Now…” Art watched the little smile he always got when Art told him he’d done spread across his face, and Art wanted to break Daddy Gutterson into tiny trembling shards for it, because Tim’s eyes were still full of tears above it, “Now… nothing else should matter.  Not that I would miss you terribly, not that the girls and Leslie would miss you, and the office’d be way more boring.”

Tim had gone still – fully still. Art almost looked for the target, the shot he was aiming to take. He plowed on, reaching out to put his hands on Tim’s knees. “It was pointed out to me, by the other CD’s, that maybe it was selfish of me to…”

“You would miss me?” his voice was small, crackling. 

“…you’re a damn fool, Tim,” Art said, “Would I…” he shook his head, “Tim.” He took a deep breath, took the papers off the table, shoving them under a cushion – there, it wasn’t boss-Art, it was dad-Art, and dad-Art needed to make this clearer, _apparently_. “I’m not gonna talk as your boss, here. Okay?”

“…okay?”

“Tim, I love you like a son.  Hell,” If it were legally possible, and would have done Tim a single ounce of good, Art would adopt him.  Probably not something to say out loud.  “I am proud of you. I have been, since that first day when you were early to work and I realized you’d listened to me after that godawful brawl you were in, and went to the Marshals instead of becoming… something else.  Something like that MP you capped.  You chose a harder path for yourself, and I liked that about you. You were stubborn. And you stuck with it, even when you didn’t like it much. Even when you got handed scutwork, and Rachel dragged out her spurs,” they both smiled at that memory, “And then I worked with you some, and some more, and you’re a damn wriggly weaseling little bastard with a good heart and a sharp tongue. And I fell in love with you like I fell in love with my girls, the first time I held them.”

Tim wasn’t breathing, just looking at him with an expression that broke his heart, “And more importantly,” Art went on, “You let me love you.  And… I think it’s altogether likely, you love me back.”

Tim blinked at him, his eyes fixed on his face as if he were memorizing it, intent and razorsharp.  Art looked back at him, and they sat for just a minute that way, just looking.

Tim’s voice was a wreck, “I do. And Leslie, and the girls.  But I thought…”

“They love you, too.” Art shifted, holding up an arm, and Tim only eyed it for a second with that familiar calculating ‘is that going to hurt?’ look before burrowing in. Art wrapped it down around him – damn skinny boy! – and let his chin rest on the top of his head, letting Tim settle himself down. “What’d you think?”

“That it was just…” he shrugged, turning his chin down against his chest, talking about into his collar, “I wanted it so bad, that I saw it where it wasn’t.  Like seeing water in the desert. Thought I was making it up, and then I decided that, well,  _fine._  It wasn't hurting anybody but me.”

“That’s just like you,” Art said softly, giving him a little shake.

Tim snorted, elbowing him gently. “So why put in for my transfer? You’re professional, boss, it’s not like you play favorites… I don’t understand.”

“You’re a damn good marshal.  The other CD’s think I’m holding you back, blocking your transfer.”

“Tell them if I wanted a transfer, I’d get one,” Tim said, peevishly, “I do know how that works.”

“Now you tell me.”

“And miss this?” Tim pulled back just enough to look at him, “Hell no.  This is the shit dreams are made of.”

That wasn’t even sarcasm, Art realized, and swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his mouth shut, to not curse at what his mind’s eye was seeing and his heart said was truth. “Yeah. But I thought maybe I was.  You won’t make CD, here, son.  That’s Rachel’s.  Your career’s gonna cap.”

“I don’t want it,” Tim said, “I had a career.  You know what it got me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.  It got me waking up sweating and screaming and drinking enough to make my liver ache at twenty-two. Here, I got… all y’all.”

“Yes, you do, kiddo.” Art said,  “I’m sorry I took so long to tell you. I thought you knew.” 

“Oh, can that and sell it!  How could I?” Tim asked, looking at him, eyebrow up, “I have no idea what this is supposed to look like.  You could be weird, and I’d never know.”

Art laughed, “Smartass.”

“Yep,” Tim said, sounding smug.

“You mean it?”

“Yes.”

Leslie came down with the coffee, and raised her eyebrows to Art – was everything okay? He looked pointedly at the other end of the sofa, and she smiled, sitting down and making room for herself, pushing at Tim’s hip to have his legs over hers.

“You okay, Tim?” she asked.

“You know how you always wanted a boy?” Art said.                                         ––

“…oh, really?” her face lit up, and Tim thought she looked beautiful, and young, as he looked at her shyly through his lashes, “And I don’t even need an epidural,” she teased, wrapping her fingers into his hand, pulling it to her, “Tim, honey, what happened that got you so upset?”

“I filled out paperwork to send him to Texas?” Art flinched for the maelstrom.

“You-did- **what**?”

“He thought it would be a good career move,” Tim defended him, “And it would be.”

Leslie looked stricken, “But… Texas?  It’s awful far.”

“I’m not going,” Tim said, sitting himself half up so she could see him more clearly, twisting his spine in a way that made Art wince. “He just thought it would be a good move.”

“And you didn’t want to go? Honey, if it’s best for you, you go. We’ll always be here when you get back.”

Tim blinked at her, “How do I even deserve you two?” he asked, like it was a question that could be answered.

Leslie pulled him closer to her, resting her cheek on his hair, “Oh Tim,” she said, “It ain’t about deservin’.  Now… about this job?  You shouldn’t stay just for us.  Family doesn’t just…. Disappear, because you don’t see them.”

“You might.”

“I take a strong objection to that,” Leslie said, and Art sat back with a happy sigh to hear her use her scolding tone on not-him.  “Why, you could be on the moon and you’d still be ours.”

“But I don’t wanna live on the moon, Leslie.”

“Well, if you decide to go, we’ll help you pack, and lay you a plate come Thanksgiving and Christmas, like always. Okay, Tim?”

“Yes’m.”

“Now drink your coffee, and then come see if I can’t find you a little something to eat.”

“Yes’m.”

“That’s my boy,” she said, and Tim’s smile was enough to make this a record year in and of itself.

 

 


End file.
